


Impossible

by twelveisagoodone



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: And she has a beating heart, Because they are impossible, F/M, He remembers her, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twelveisagoodone/pseuds/twelveisagoodone
Summary: He once let Clara Oswald inside his head, and she never left.
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Impossible

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot has been long forgotten in my files. It's time to become alive. Enjoy.

He opens his eyes and the universe twirls around him out of focus. So, he closes them again. His head hurts. Everything hurts actually and there is this metallic taste in his mouth. He tries to move but there is this burning ache in one of his left side that prevents him from moving. He can feel the flow of his blood, his hearts pumping it wildly to the open wound as the cells of his body keep reconstructing themselves to close it. 

Of course. He has been hit. So his body now is flooded with regeneration energy, healing itself from what he knows had been a close call. And, oh, how it hurts. 

Once more he tries to force his eyes open and blinks several times trying to adjust them to the lights that surround him. He shifts in the bed he lies on to try to get into a sitting position. This time a gentle hand on his chest stops him.

“Hey, slow down,” there is a familiar kindness in that voice that makes his hearts ache and his head tingles in a way that has become part of him now. And for a second he wonders if one day it will hurt any less. 

Strangely, this time her presence next to him is stronger, almost… real. Maybe he is not healing at all. Maybe he is dying then.

His eyes struggle to focus on her face and when his vision finally clears, the pain that cuts through him is almost unbearable. Big brown eyes stare at him full of worry and warm and a hundred of other things that have always been there and he had rather ignored. Now, it only makes him hurt even more. 

This time the hallucination is clearer, complete, perfect even. 

Her eyes have the exact same colour and look at him in the exact same way. And it looks so real that he almost moves his hand to touch her face. But he doesn't, too familiar with the pain that follows every time his hands will reach to grasp only air. 

But he speaks with her, he can't just stop himself. He always speaks with her. Lately, more than ever. He is just a madman. And she... Oh, she is his madness.

“Hello,” his voice comes out raspy, burning its way out of his throat. 

It takes her a moment to answer him. Her eyes watch him intently and he can see the glint of unshed tears, even if the corners of her mouth curl up just enough to give him a hint of a smile, a dimple showing up in her left cheek.

“Hello,” she breathes out softly, her gaze landing on him, warm and tender. And it's just another blow in his hearts. 

How he wishes this could be real, she, his Clara, here in front of him. So close. So close.

She keeps looking at him in that very same way that has never failed in making him melt, transforming him in nothing more than a puddle at her feet. And it aches to realise how his hearts and soul are still so absolutely hers.

Her small hand hovers over his upper arm, but she seems to hesitate to touch him as if she is not sure he will accept it. Oh, if only she knew how much he aches and longs for it. 

And then, he feels it, the warmth of her touch, the gentle pressure of her hand in his arm, a soothing caress. He closes his eyes, it's almost too much to bear because it's so real, so perfect. It has never been like this before. 

Then, this is it. He must be dying and this can only be the product of his expiring mind, one final effort to bring him some comfort before everything explodes with the regeneration energy and he becomes a different person. 

He has dreamt about her before. Uncountable times. He has heard her voice calling his name to shake him out of deathly perils, to make him find his way out. In his darkest and loneliest moments, he had seen her opening the TARDIS' door to walk towards him with that bright smile, the sound of her laughter filling with light the empty corridors of his ship. But he has never, ever, felt her presence, her touch, not like this. 

Then, there is also this little thing in the back of his mind telling him that something is amiss and he opens his eyes again, for the first time taking the place that surrounds him. 

It's a TARDIS, for sure, he has any doubt about it. He can feel the pulling of the time vortex, the low hum of the rotors surrounding him, the brush of a sentient being into his mind. 

But this is not his TARDIS. It's a different one. White. So much white. And Clara is still there, so close and warm and alive that he can feel the beating of her heart and the blood running through her veins.

“You can’t be here,” he says, finally finding his voice again. His eyes scan her face. "Am I dying?"

Her hand hovers over his chest without touching him another time and she looks at him with a mixture of amusement and fondness.

“No,” she clears her throat. “I really hope you're not.”

He can feel the heat of her body, the up and down of her chest at each breath she takes, the glint of tears in her eyes. 

“Hm. So I'm finally going mad," he cocks an eyebrow at her. "You're the most perfect hallucination I've already had."

A short laugh escapes her lips. "You've always have been a little mad, but no, you're not hallucinating," she places a gentle hand on his cheek, "I'm really here."

Her touch takes his breath away and he finds himself trembling. Because it is different. Because he can feel her skin against his and the tingling sensation that only her touch can awake in him. He can feel the rush of blood pumping from her heart through her fingers. Instinctively, he leans into her touch, revelling into her warmth and the softness of her fingers. It is Clara. And she is real. Thick tears run down his cheeks. Oh, she is really there. 

Ignoring the pain on his shoulders and the open wound that is still bleeding he sits and throws his good arm around her, pulling her into him, burying his face into the crook of her neck to breathe her in. 

"How?" His voice is a choked sob and he feels her arms encircling him too, gently pulling him even closer, her own body shivering against his. 

"Oh, you know," there is a smile in her voice, though he knows that she is crying too. "I'm impossible."

A short laugh escapes his lips. He moves away just enough to look into her bright eyes. 

“That you really are.” 

“And so are you,” her smile is clear and warm like the sun over his skin. He knows that he doesn't deserve it. But he takes it anyway, like the starving man he is. 

And he can only thank to whoever had given him just one more chance.


End file.
